


Black Over Red (the death of a King)

by orphan_account



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Other, Seb Feels, backstabbing, but i guess he's referenced to a lot??, charles is literally mentioned by name once, i actually like ferrari but, in This Fic Ferrari Are Mean, mentions of blood i guess, team orders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:02:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23593525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Sebastian Vettel bleeds out. Ferrari holds the knife.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 18





	Black Over Red (the death of a King)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!  
> a quick disclaimer: this is my first ever fic. not just in this fandom. ever.  
> and I am so scared about actually posting.  
> but yeah :)  
> another quick disclaimer: surprisingly, i actually do like Ferrari, and I don't believe Seb is being replaced any time soon, although you might not be able to tell that from this fic.  
> I started watching Game of Thrones recently, so that's what I'm going to blame for all the battle and sword and king stuff going on here haha  
> anyway  
> here goes nothing  
> I hope you enjoy :)

Seb collapses into his chair. His breathing is short.

Ragged.

Rasped, like the sound of steel being pulled from a sheath.

Flayed, like skin broken around a blade.

Coarse, like the screams of victory from crowing men.

His breathing is short.

Seb closes his eyes.

Shuts out the screaming images of a battlefield long silent.

Chooses black over red.

There was a time where he relished the sight of blood.

Not anymore.

He feels like a child, covering their eyes, hiding from monsters.

_If I can't see them, they can't see me._

But he is always seen.

There are always eyes on Sebastian Vettel.

Four times World Champion.

Ferrari's reigning King.

_(About to be usurped by Ferrari's Prince)_

_(Already usurped by Ferrari's Prince)_

No matter how many times he closes his eyes. 

He can still feel the knife in his back. Still hear the cool, impassioned voice over team radio. The Italian lilt he’s spent his life trying to please. 

He can still feel the cool slide of steel. All the way up to the hilt.

It’s still in there, he knows.

Every time he shifts, he can feel its edge. Can feel the sticky discomfort of blood sticking his race suit to his back.

_(It should have been him on the podium today)_

Every time the crowd chants the wrong name, the knife twists a little more.

Every time the wrong car comes home.

Every time a journalist approaches, with that hungry fucking _gleam -_

All Seb hears is the crowd baying for blood.

_(Ferrari loves to indulge the crowd)_

Seb’s not sure how much blood is still left inside of him to be honest.

Once upon a time, he was good at this. 

Good at all the hidden works behind the scenes, at calculating eyes and cutting morals, at all the insidious little power plays. 

Good at the razor sharp politics of Formula One. 

He knew when to swing. 

When to explode in a flurry of expert strikes, to take advantage of any conceivable weakness.

Knew when to parry.

To block and defend, wielding a sturdy defence against the heavy barrage of words.

_Too old._

_Not quick enough._

_Never quick enough._

_Another spin._

_Another accident._

_Vettel’s fault again._

Seb was an expert swordsman.

It’s hard to defend against an attack you don’t see coming.

It’s hard to defend against an attack from behind.

Blood still drips around the knife in his back.

Blurs, soaking out until it’s indistinguishable from the sinful pride of Ferrari red. 

A team of passion. A team of pride.

A team that will cut you open and leave you to bleed. 

A team built from broken dreams and bleeding hearts.

A team that demands _everything._

That sucks you dry, draining you of your life’s blood.

That discards you, empty, when you have nothing left to give.

One king falls, another rises to take his place.

He wishes Charles good luck.

Seb sits in the quiet of an abandoned track. The crowds have dissipated. All his fans are gone.

There is no one left to witness the death of a king.

His breathing fills his ears.

Ragged.

Rasped.

Flayed.

Coarse.

Short.

_Fading._

He closes his eyes.

Chooses black over red.

Sebastian Vettel takes his last breath.

_The King is dead. Long live the King._

**Author's Note:**

> ew this was awful  
> also I don't think I know how to write coherent flowing sentences so  
> yeah  
> my tumblr is onehonoramongstthieves


End file.
